Plum Art Magazine - Edition 1

P UM L

Shoes

Emily Gohn

Black and white swirls Twisting, intermixing With each drop of sunlight.

Worn double-knotted But I still trip On its thin soles Millions of miles Danced and stomped All in this one pair Reflecting the past

Amanda Mcvey

Progression

Bella Li

I. morning of the pines comes the first gleam of sunshine breathes in summer vibe II. passengers in cars evening cloud fades from my heart lost in roadside bar III. skyscrapers in fog on the roof I stare and stop feebly numb to thoughts

Anna Dove

Francesca Grazioli

Tess Majors

No Fun naive they are naive they are or however you spell it i spell it collectively we are those who spell it wrong right we average out to that which is close enough. i wore jeans to the beach today i didn’t want them/us/we/you/I/him/her simply nobody at all as above referenced to see my bottom half because my top half does not quite cancel out and I’m afraid that one percent of difference is just too much. the boy’s neck is sunburnt red like the bucket in hand

proof not needed but presented just the same.

Anna Dove

i see now an elderly mother and father as they grin and bear taking a picture of their son who stands alone i can’t help but look beyond sugar coated expressions that this is not what they imagined their camera would be capturing all these years later. the sun hits just right as father and son reconcile split decades unevenly forget to round to the nearest tenth in an isolated occasion of true bonding. a seagull stands on the sinking sand itches himself tangibly to ignore the greater suffering of relying on usthe true scavengers to feed him

One of The Good Ones Julia Davis

There’s a homeless man downtown named Howard. People tell me “he’s one of the good ones.” He has this scar across his face from a razor. In a fight, I presume, since he seems reluctant to share. As he begins to tell me the story, there’s a man who comes up to him. He says “Howard, how bout you do me a favor?” “I ain’t got no ID and I gotta go put some cash in the bank. I’ll give you $100 if you do it for me.” Howard looks suspicious of this “sketchball’s” intentions and lies. “I ain’t got no ID either.”

Alex Liu

Howard has seen Cville when Fridays After Five is over. He sleeps

on the streets when even the boldest of college students have stumbled back to the new dorms. He knows that his spot in front of the CVS is a popular one. He hopes he won’t have to fight for it. Because Howard seizes real bad. He knows that $100 could go towards an ambulance fund when he inevitably has a seizure on the pavement.

Howard knows his time is coming soon. He also knows the lady, who begs for her rent money beneath the bright lights of the Paramount, has a lust for Pepsi products. So whenever Howard makes $1.69 panhandling, he gets off his plastic crate, puts down his sign, and walks into the CVS. The cashier keeps a close eye on him. He picks the lady out a Pepsi just to make her day. Howard knows he can’t repair his life now. He shrugs: might as well leave this world as beautiful as possible, right?

Judy

Gao

Shiver Hewson Duffy a shiver slithers down my spine: ring church bells for a wedding garbled frequencies; now funeral shiver a tone like love letters slipped into fissures stars, pieces in this spherical horizon whistle as they fall: skipping stones shattering surface at terminal velocity [tick, tock] a shiver sprints down my spine: feel the moment before you wake up after in a dream you die shiver the rhythm of two tectonic plates in confrontation: tsunamis, mere aftershocks, dousing papier-mâché fires a shiver reverberates [tick, tock: time is] up my spine

listen to your echo—

Amanda Mcvey

Alex Liu

Maddie Kwasnick

God Save the Queen God Save the Queen And those who walk and crawl through underground subways On way to Hyde Park across from Grosvenor Square Waiting in their own filth, shitting into sleeping bags For where else is there to be but the pearly linoleum gates trains run through Where it costs a pound to sit on a sullage encrusted toilet And be guarded by a voyeur who doubtless knows mire and moloch and muck

Ellie Powell

God Save the Queen And those to whom the luxury has been afforded To waste unearned bread on golden bowls to shit regal cattle into To spend expendables to keep those without clothes or food or sleep out To construct needless displays of gated wealth behind the rails of Buckingham I do not want to see the changing of the guard I want to see the man in the belly of Paddington station fed, and clothed, and given a free pass to shit inside the only place he can stay dry enough to call home God Save the Queen And the class traitors who beat and bludgeon the men of their stations who dane to question the judgment of an upper class cow, The woman whose sole relevant decision is to cut herself from Europe Those traitors who arrest men of their stature for sleeping on the cement ground of Piccadilly And later get off to it in dirty showers While their lower class wives sing songs of sailors God Save the Queen And those who sit on the benches of purgatory To decide the fate of their souls with the fate of a continental union These men who feed the English lies, and tarifs, and promises, and no voting procedure A Michael Fallon, the tory who read classics at Corpus Christi Or Liz Windsor

Who will never ride the underground

Who has never met someone lacking

Who fled from the diseased

Who killed with Reagan

Who is glorified by those she oppresses Whose only tragedy takes form in a bitch of husband who wanted a royal last name God Save the Queen And the family that forced two children to walk miles Behind the corpse of their dead mother without blinking The family for whom culture is a game Something to steal from the primitive peoples of Africa, Asia, and the Americas As they live through their in-bred glory So Rule Britannia!

Rule through the amoral filth your wealthiest cattle create For your working class to receive gladly as bedding While crying into the wind pledges of loyalty To Liz and Phil

David Colavincenzo

The Consumed King

The fortress of Ardun-DeNine, home to King Isen, sat in the center of the Strauf, the Domain of Ice. The Grand Hall was lined with silver.

Statues of owls, carved from silver lined the path to the throne. Guards stood in between each of the statues. Behind the statues on both sides, large wooden tables sat, bearing mugs, plates, and glasses that remained from the previous night’s celebration. A blue carpet lined the center of the of the room. Isen rested on his throne. A cold breeze flowed through the hall as I entered. I kneeled before the throne and spoke.

“King Isen, I must take a leave. There is trouble in Duraheim.”

“So you have heard the rumors. Aldis has been taken.”

“There is time.” I replied, “I will return once my duty is done. I ask before I leave that you give me your hallowed blessing. The divine blessing of Darkness.”

Isen stood up from the throne and placed his hand on my head, “I bestow unto you the power of the Dark. May it grant you the strength to fight foes greater than any mortal men.” He unsheathed his sword. “I also grant you the use of the Horseman’s Blade, forged in the darkest corner of the deepest abyss. May you be granted the strength to release Aldis.” ***

My horse galloped rhythmically across the fields. The towns of Duraheim, one of the 17 realms, burned. Citizens evacuated their towns and headed for the safety of the Citadel, home to their king, Aldis. My black armor glistened in the light of the setting sun. The gates opened as I approached; the guards watched with a cautious eye as I rode through the streets overflowing with frightened citizens. Reaching the bottom of the stone staircase, a guard grabbed my horse’s reins as the Captain of the Royal Guard greeted me.

“Lord Ranierus?”

“Yes?”

“I anticipated your arrival.”

“So then the rumors I have heard are true,” I replied “It happened a few months ago,” the Captain said as we began our ascension of the stairs. “The Light descended from above and chose Aldis as its vessel. He has not been seen in months.”

We reached the top of the stairs and walked towards the front gate into the Grand Castle. Guards stood at their posts outside the entrance of the structure. Snow still gripped the top of the ramparts. Clouds moved in the distance, foretelling events to come. Upon pressing my hands on the iron doors, the guards glanced at their Captain with concern.

The Captain asked me, “Are you, too, a vessel? A vessel of the Dark?”

I turned my head, “You already have your answer.”

Entering the Grand Hall, I was reminded of its old, brilliant splendor. Columns of gold held the catwalk above. Banners of gold and red used to line the ceiling, bearing the symbol of the house, but no more. The hall was decrepit and unclean. Chandeliers were smashed on the ground, tables tipped over on the floor, and the banners above hung by mere threads.

“Hail!” I yelled, my palm rested gently on the hilt of my blade

“Who dares enter my keep?”

“An old friend,” I replied. My voice hung in the air like a layer of fog.

“Lord Ranierus. Welcome home. What brings you back?”

“You need no answer to realize why I have returned.” The hall was dark. Too dark to see him. The throne was shrouded in darkness.

“So, you seek the light for yourself,” Aldis said

“I do not seek the Light nor do I seek the throne on which you sit. I am here to restore order and to destroy the Light, the entity that has claimed countless lives!”

Silence. When Aldis spoke again, his voice was distorted. It sounded as if hundreds of voices were speaking as one unified voice.

“Many challengers have come and been defeated. One vanquished with poison, another

consumed by flames. Still another awaits in the Domain of Ice. Not one of them has stood here, as you do now. You! Conqueror of Evil and Fear! The gallant Knight of Dark.” He paused. “It has been years since you have stood in this keep. You left at a time when the Duraheim needed another leader, when my people needed you. When I needed you. You left me!”

“That is not true. You left me in a field to die following a battle. King Isen of Strauf found me and took me in. Have you truly forgotten what happened?” Shaking my head I drew my blade, “I am sorry, old friend.”

“Monarchs fail. Kingdoms crumble. Realms fall,” shouted Aldis.

“No more Domains shall fall to the Light. Not as long as I wield the Horseman’s Blade.” The blade ignited in flame at the mention of it’s unholy name.

“The blade is weak! You do not have your full strength. The throne will not accept you. Nor

will the throne of Strauf! I know that you serve Isen, the False King. He sent you here! I see it in your eyes.”

“I came here on my own volition! Isen has no wish to see you die!” Then I saw him. Aldis was no longer human. His eyes were glowing red orbs. His body had been consumed by the Light and was replaced by vines and growth. Twice his original size, his body was rooted into the marble floor of the keep, his throne, absorbed into his disfigured body.

“You were never strong enough. You could never do what was needed to be done, but here

you are. Trying to amend broken worlds and jagged promises. You see yourself as the hero of the story, but you are no hero, and I am no villain. It is all a matter of interpretation,” he said with

venom in his voice.

A brutal fight followed, but I emerged, victor of both Light and Dark.

“Power of Tenderness”, Reaggy Liu

“In the streets of Sanctí Spíritus, Cuba”, Jan Schacker

Reflect It

Anonymous

felt like a Thursday, which was odd because nothing ever felt like a Thursday. Hell, Simone thought as she walked down the empty school hallway, Thursdays didn’t even feel like Thursdays. Nevertheless, the feeling persisted as she continued to stroll through her old abandoned school. Posters for school clubs line the hallways, and she passed a corkboard bearing student analyses of a poem she vaguely remembered reading, but nothing jumped out at her. In fact, nothing triggered any memory at all.

Simone turned the corner and saw her destination: a doorway blocked from floor to ceiling by yellow caution tape. The place where, three years ago, before her parents had called in the doctors, before the therapist, and before the port in her neck had been installed, it had happened. Her hand settled around the doorknob without her thinking about it, and a shock ran up her body. They had warned her against doing this exact thing, but like most things the doctors warned her about, she had disregarded it immediately. She had to know for herself. Turning the doorknob, she pushed the door in, swinging it open without a sound. Carefully, she poked her head into the room.

She still didn’t remember. She’d thought that perhaps with the revisiting of the place where it had happened, she might remember what exactly it was. Obviously, that had not occured. She would have to watch the event itself. The port in her neck twinged, and another Simone materialized, sitting in the corner of the room doing homework, oblivious to any spectators. Despite knowing that the phantom of herself had just appeared, it felt as if the not-Simone had been there the whole time, and the real-Simone suddenly felt intrusive, a voyeur to whatever was about to occur.

The door behind her opened again, and not-Simone looked up and smiled.

“Hello, Damien.”

Who was Damien? She had no recollection of anyone with that name. A tingling sensation rippled through Simone as a new phantom entered the room, a boy with dark hair and a high school letterman jacket.

“Hey, nerd.” Damien ruffled not-Simone’s hair and went to sit down.

“Hey,” not-Simone caught Damien’s sleeve, “That new movie releases Friday, I thought maybe we could go see it?”

Damien tensed, eyes hardening.

“Simone, you know I can’t. What would everyone think?”

“I know… I just wish we could go someplace together.”

“I’ve told you before, you can sneak back to my place.” Damien’s voice was cold.

“Damien…”

“Come on, nerd. What’s wrong with you?”

“Damien, you know I won’t.” Not-Simone’s voice was firm, but real-Simone could see the fear in her eyes. Was this all that she’d forgotten?

“Fine,” Damien sighed, sitting down next to not-Simone. “At least you can give me a kiss.”

Not-Simone nodded and leaned over, and then real-Simone was watching herself kiss someone else, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in the doorway. Watching felt wrong in a way that it had never before, and a sharp pain shot through her neck port. The doctors had warned her… but she had to know.

“Damien…” Not-Simone’s voice echoed out a warning, but Damien continued to kiss her, hands roaming to places they were obviously not wanted.

“Damien!” Her cry was sharp, but- Oh. Oh, God. Simone didn’t believe in a deity, but she felt herself praying to one now, shaking all over as she watched the scene unfold. She prayed that all the memories of that day would not come back, but even as she prayed, they returned and possessed her mind and her body, and soon she was not-Simone, with Damien’s hands all over her and his tongue in her mouth, and she wanted nothing more than to die, right then and there. The doctors had been right, and she wished she could forget again. Her hands scrabbled at the port in her neck, struggling to find the wires that she couldn’t see.

Damien’s head turned around, and he grinned at her. She shook herself, pulling at the wires in her neck. That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t see her. The phantoms couldn’t interact with anyone watching.

“Hey, nerd.” His smile turned vicious.

She had to get out.

With one final tug, she ripped the wires from the port and unplugged herself from her mind, eyes snapping open into the cold laboratory room. The only sound in the dead air was her hyperventilation, and she collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest.

The doctors had been right.

Yutong Lu

Reaggy Liu

Vision

Bella Li

On an ordinary bookshelf ordinary books squeeze together The bindings line up, a fading, aged spectrum Between me and the shelf are dozens of meters thousands of centimeters are multiple layers of windows infinite layers of air My gaze crosses distance and space, struggling to reach the colorful bindings of the books on the shelf in the small glazing on the white wall in front of which a tree straightening out its branches in the wind that flows against the French window inside which a pair of pupils dilate.

I may stand up and walk towards the French windows and push open the door aside and pass the blossoming tree that is extending branches and step into the white wall building and go upstairs to the room with the small glazing and touch the bindings of the books on the shelf, yet, my pupils keep slowly whispering that the shelf stands at a place never can I come closer to touch.

The dozens of meters carry a long stream from a dimension I have never existed in Time is smashed and kneaded and stirred into a soup a viscous water that slowly descends, dives into the lower air, and breaks up into a water drop that rolls on the path and rolling and rolling across the road It was raised into the sky by a cloud of dancing dust in the dessert kissed by the song from a homeless man fuddled by the tulips that bloom under the wind of a white treadmill dried up on the surface of moon Is this it? my life. the drop thinks and closes its eyes and it sees a similar viscous stream. Is this a dream?

The stream spins up and cuddles the drop into its wide maternal breast and the drop suddenly sees everything, joy and pain, start and end, the ups and downs of lives.

“Your home is an eye” says the stream, that is now limpid and diluted but there’s no response, there’s no drop anymore.

I blink once, and twice, and another time

Bella Li

Editors: Hewson Duffy, Bella Li Page design: Bella Li Graphic Logo: Leo hoang Letter Logo: Bella Li Cover Photo: Yutong Lu